The tin of cocoa sat open on the counter beside me.Its paper label was faded, curling at the edges, and the powder inside looked a little lumpy, a little stale.Still, I smiled at it.It wasn’t perfect, but it was something.And maybe that was what mattered most.
I found a spoon in a drawer, mismatched like everything else in this house, and dipped it into the cocoa.The rich, dusty smell rose faintly, carrying with it something almost nostalgic, though I couldn’t place why.I scooped it into two mugs I’d pulled from the cupboard—one chipped along the rim, the other bearing the ghost of some faded logo.
And then I felt the weight of his eyes.
Charlie was behind me, leaning somewhere in the shadows, but I didn’t need to turn around to know he was watching.The awareness prickled at the back of my neck, sent a flutter through my stomach.It made me a little nervous—not because I thought he’d bark at me for daring to use his kitchen, but because his attention felt heavy in a way I didn’t quite understand.
“The trick is to use milk,” I murmured.“Yours was good, of course.But this…” I let my voice trail off.
I focused on the kettle as it began to hiss, steam rising, the whistle faint and tired.Carefully, I poured the hot water into each mug, stirring until the cocoa dissolved.The spoon clinked against ceramic, steady, soothing, a sound that filled the silence between us.My heart thudded too loud in my chest, and I had to remind myself to breathe.
“Almost done,” I said lightly, though my voice wavered just enough to betray me.
He didn’t answer, but I swore I heard the faintest rumble, like a grunt of acknowledgment.
I set the spoon down, wiped my damp palms against my thighs, and turned.Sure enough, he was there in the doorway, broad shoulders braced against the frame, eyes fixed on me.The firelight from the other room cast him half in shadow, but I could feel the intensity of his stare all the same.
I lifted the mugs, one in each hand, trying to play it casual.“Hope you don’t mind me taking over your stove.”
He didn’t say anything at first.Just watched.My nerves danced like snow caught in the wind.Finally, he pushed off the frame, stepping closer to take the mug I offered.His scarred hand brushed mine, just barely, and the heat that sparked had nothing to do with the cocoa.
I looked down quickly, cheeks warm, and blew across the surface of my own mug.The steam curled up between us, carrying with it the faint, chalky sweetness of old cocoa.
It wasn’t perfect.It wasn’t even good, if I was honest.But standing there in his kitchen, with him watching me like that, it felt like something rare.Something almost fragile.
And I clung to it, even as my nerves hummed.
We sat in the glow of the fire, mismatched mugs warm between our hands, the storm pressing hard against the house.At first, the silence was sharp, stretched tight the way it always was around him.I sipped my cocoa slowly, waiting, bracing for one of his clipped remarks to cut through.
But it never came.
Instead, the quiet shifted, softened.It wasn’t tense anymore—it was thoughtful, almost contemplative, like the hush that falls over a church or a library.I let it settle between us, surprising myself with how comfortable it felt.
I stole glances at him when I thought he wouldn’t notice.The firelight carved shadows across his face, illuminating every line, every scar, every piece of him he tried so hard to hide.He stared into the flames too long, as though they held answers he’d been searching for and still couldn’t find.
When his shoulders sagged, heavy and unguarded, I knew he thought I wasn’t looking.
But I was.
And the sight of it—a man built of walls and barbs and silence, letting himself slump under the weight of whatever haunted him—made my chest ache.
Loneliness clung to him like a second skin, so familiar it must have felt natural to him by now.But to me, it looked unbearable.
I curled my fingers tighter around the mug, the steam brushing my face, and wished I could peel that loneliness away, if only for a moment.Wished I could tell him he didn’t have to carry it all alone.
Instead, I sat quietly, sipping the cocoa that tasted more like a memory than sweetness, letting the fire crackle between us.
And I ached—not just for the shadows that lived in him, but for the man himself.
The cocoa was nearly gone; the mugs cooling in our hands, but I wasn’t ready for the silence to swallow us again.The fire popped, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney, and I leaned my chin against my knees, tilting my head toward him.
“So,” I said carefully, testing the air, “what’s your favorite book?”
His eyes flicked to me, flat and guarded, before sliding back to the fire.“Depends.”
“On what?”I pressed, soft but curious.
“On the day.On the mood.Books don’t fit into neat boxes.”
